


Duende

by Cattraine



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-14
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:07:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cattraine/pseuds/Cattraine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Duende": A clinging soul, a troublesome spirit, or a passionate visitation from an erotic form of inspiration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duende

**Author's Note:**

> "Duende" in this case is Spanish for the Duen de Casa, or Lord of the House, an incubus. It refers to a clinging soul, a troublesome spirit or a passionate visitation from an erotic form of inspiration.
> 
> Duende was written very quickly, almost overnight back in the winter of 2005. I remember sitting up all night unable to stop typing. It remains, I think, the best Mag 7 story I have written.

Buck Wilmington glanced at the clock on the bullpen wall, then immediately quit the program on his computer and shut it down. It was Friday, and he was meeting his current lady at Inez's for drinks before their date. Around him, his team members began to prepare to leave as well. Ezra, typically, was the first out the door, with JD a step behind him, stuffing a computer manual into his backpack.

Josiah and Nathan took their time, quietly and efficiently finishing the tasks at hand before preparing to leave. Nate and Rain were planning a trip out of town for the long weekend, and Sanchez was headed out on a retreat. As he tugged on his leather jacket, Wilmington glanced longingly at Larabee's firmly closed door. He huffed out a breath and exchanged a look with Josiah. He knew better than to even ask.

Broad shoulders slumped, he accepted the slap on the back from Sanchez and left with the medic and profiler, glancing back wistfully at the door. The man behind that door was not the same man he had considered his closest friend for longer than he could remember. Larabee had made that perfectly clear the last time he had tried to persuade him to join them in socializing after work.

At the elevator, though, he stopped and dug in his heels. At Nathan's questioning look, he sighed.

"I got to try," he explained.

Turning, he headed back down the hall. Sanchez and Jackson exchanged grim glances. Buck was baiting the wounded lion in his den again and was doomed for disappointment. Since the death of his family, Christopher Larabee had withdrawn into himself to such a degree that he was almost unrecognizable as the team leader that they had known.

Chris no longer tried to drown his sorrow in a whisky bottle. He was cool, efficient and almost clinical in his dealings with his friends and colleagues. It was as though he had bottled all emotion and set it neatly aside. He no longer laughed or socialized with his team members, instead he froze them out and distanced himself. The once easy atmosphere of the Team 7 office was now all business. Larabee would tolerate nothing less.

Buck tapped lightly on the office door before sticking his head inside.

"Hey, Stud, how about a beer before ya head for home?" he asked hopefully.

Larabee never raised his head from the paperwork he was perusing.

"Another time," he answered curtly.

"Chris--"

Wilmington flinched inwardly at the cool distance in his oldest friend's eyes,] as they were raised to his. He knew better than to push. He nodded gently at his boss and quietly withdrew and closed the door behind him. Slowly, head down, stuffing his hands in his pockets, he headed back down the hall. He wasn't surprised to see that Nate and Josiah were waiting for him. He shook his head and stepped inside the elevator, Josiah clapping a commiserating hand on his shoulder and the doors closed behind them.

Inside the silent office, Chris Larabee finished reading over the report in front of him and signed it. He placed it in its folder and stacked it neatly with the others on the edge of his immaculate desk. Glancing around he realized that he had finished all the day's paperwork. He stared blankly at his computer screen for a moment and contemplated starting work on the monthly budget reports, then realized that would leave him with a clean desk to start with the following week.

Damn. It looked like he had some time on his hands. He looked up at his clock. It was only five thirty. He briefly contemplated accepting Buck's invitation, than dismissed the idea. He didn't want to socialize and have to deal with the noisy, boisterous Wilmington and his never ending attempts to set him up with various women. He didn't want to spend time in a bar. It was too--tempting, and the light and laughter grated. He would go home and get a head start on mucking out the barn.

Sighing, he leaned back in his chair for a moment, running his hands through his thick, wheat blond hair. He knew Buck was worried about him. Hell, the whole team was worried about him, but he didn't know how to ease up and make things right. Buck thought his grief over Sarah and Adam's deaths, and survivor's guilt, was responsible for his change in demeanor.

Yes, grief was a big part of it. He missed his young son horribly. Would never stop grieving for the boy's loss. But how could he explain that the loss of his pregnant wife had left him feeling something entirely different-- a bittersweet sense of freedom. How could he ever explain that the perfect couple's' relationship had been crumbling? That Sarah's blithe disregard for his own hopes and plans had nearly led them to divorce.

She had deliberately stopped using birth control and gotten pregnant after he had asked her to wait. She had done everything in her power to try and coerce him to move from the ATF to the corporate world. There was a cushy desk job waiting for him at her father's firm. Sarah Connelly Larabee had been a strong willed woman who had had plans for her life that included molding her husband to suit her own idea of the perfect lifestyle. Relations between the two at the end were strained, cordial at best, frigid most of the time. Only Adam and the unborn baby had kept them together, because Chris had fought the bit every step of the way.

He was happy with his job and modest plans to retire to his small horse ranch. Sarah apparently had harbored other plans, and it came as a shock to her when Chris dug in his heels and refused to bend to her will. The deliberate, deceptive pregnancy had been the last straw as far as Chris was concerned. How could he trust a woman who lied about something so important as a child? Who had long term plans for their lives she had never shared with him?

While repairing the bathroom sink, he had discovered her cache of unused birth control pills for that month. Confrontation had led to a screaming fight and she had packed Adam up and left. She had sulkily returned two weeks later after it became obvious that he wasn't running after her to beg her to return. She had tried seduction next, followed by a teary tantrum to convince him to see things her way, but Chris' eyes were wide open by then, and that failed as well. He loved his wife, but he no longer trusted her.

When his family was murdered with the car bomb meant for him, the combination of grief and guilt had nearly killed him. True grief at their loss, combined with a horrible, sickly guilt at actually feeling relieved that she was gone. What kind of unfeeling monster did that make him? He struggled with that guilt every day. It had nearly killed him. Some long, cold nights he still thought about putting his gun in his mouth.

Only his work kept him going while he struggled with just getting through each day as it came. The joy in life was gone now. The future he had eagerly anticipated vanished like dust in the wind. It had been so appallingly easy to sink to the bottom of a whisky bottle and never come up again. His confidence was shaken. He no longer trusted his own judgment, and he threw himself into his work and micromanaged every detail to try and compensate.

He stood and meticulously placed his laptop and several files in his briefcase. He made it a point now to never leave the office without taking some work home. He would look over those new applications and recommendations for a team sharpshooter. Quietly, he strode down the empty hall to the elevator, a tall, silent wraith in his long, black cashmere topcoat. The federal building emptied out quickly on Friday evenings, especially before a holiday weekend.

He didn't bother taking the elevator down to the parking garage. That part of the building was temporarily under construction, which had forced him to park in a garage three blocks away. When he reached the lobby, he caught a glimpse of Orrin Travis leaving ahead of him with Mary on his arm. She was smiling up at her father-in-law, laughing at some remark he had made, pale hair twisted in a sleek knot above the collar of her dark blue coat.

Larabee deliberately paused, taking his time pulling his gloves out of his pockets and drawing them on. He waited until the couple was well out of sight before continuing across the gold-veined, black marble floors of the spacious foyer. He nodded a polite goodnight to the guard as he pushed his way out the heavy brass-framed glass doors. His plans for the evening did not include a run in with Mary Travis.

It was a crisp evening, with a promise of snow in the air. Chris raised his head and breathed in the cold air. Maybe he would take Pony out tomorrow on a long ride. The big black horse could use the exercise before the winter snows set in. So could he. Working until he was exhausted enough to sleep didn't count.

As he walked briskly towards the parking garage, he ignored the warm, inviting lights of the coffee shops and restaurants that dotted the downtown block. He glanced idly into a couple of store windows as he passed, ignoring the ones with cheerful, early holiday displays. The display in the front window of Harper's Antiques stopped him in his tracks.

There, draped invitingly over an old steamer trunk, was an antique bone handled Colt .45 Peacemaker, complete with its silver concho studded, black leather rig. Larabee's right hand twitched with the sudden need to touch the gun. It was strangely familiar to him. Where had he seen it before? A puzzled frown on his handsome face, he hesitated only a moment before he pushed his way into the tiny shop.

The elderly proprietor of the shop was both chatty and amiable. He was more than happy to allow closer examination of the antique firearm to the tall, well-dressed potential customer. Carefully, he pulled the gun and holster from the window and laid it out on a velvet tray for display.

"I picked it up at an estate auction in Texas. Owner of the place came from a long line of Texas Rangers. Reckon it might have belonged to one of them at one time or another."

Virgil Harper watched with shrewd eyes as the blond removed his gloves and handled the old gun gently, with a deft touch and something akin to reverence. This man knew and respected firearms, and this gun seemed to fit the lean, calloused hand perfectly. He watched silently as the man examined the gun, expertly opening the chamber and sighting down the barrel. He figured that he was either a lawman or a collector.

"It came in a lot, several items dating from that period all together in a oak strongbox. Would you like to see those as well?

Larabee glanced absently up from his prize and nodded. The old man turned and shuffled into the back room. The moment the man's back was turned, some unknown impulse prompted him to tilt the revolver up to examine the butt, feeling his pulse start to pound as he did. The blood rushed to his head and his pulse quickened as he stared down at the tiny initials stamped in the metal--CL.

This gun was his. Somehow, some way it had found its way to him. There was no way he was leaving this store without it. He shivered as a slight, superstitious chill ran up his spine to lift the hair on his nape. Was it an omen of some kind, a portent of good or bad, like Josiah was always rambling about when he spoke about native cultures and their belief systems?

Harper set the wooden box carefully on the counter and opened the old iron padlock with the big key, then raised the lid. Slowly, he began to lay items out on the counter. A small bundle of yellow, crumbling papers neatly tied with twine, two tiny carved wooden horses, a battered harmonica, a thin, battered notebook and a worn, tooled leather pocketbook.

"Haven't had time to look over all this stuff. Just bought the lot. I can give it all to you for a good price if you're interested."

Chris carefully replaced the Colt in its holster, eyes on the items displayed before him. He felt light headed and his pulse was pounding like a drum again. His palms itched to greedily grab the box and its contents. He wanted, no, needed to take them home where he could examine his treasures more carefully.

Without volition, his hand reached for the wide, old-fashioned pocketbook. He traced a finger over the design on the cover. A running horse had been carefully etched into the hide, bracketed by the initials C and L. It was expertly done, and had been lovingly crafted. Carefully, he opened it, and felt his breath hitch at what he found inside.

It was an old tin daguerreotype and he found himself gazing into his own eyes. Stunned, he found he could only swallow hard and stare. His look alike stared coolly back at him, standing tall, dressed in black and wearing a long duster drawn back at the hip to display the silver studded rig. His left hand was clamped firmly on the shoulder of the man seated stiffly beside him.

Larabee hissed out a breath when he saw the second man's face. He could hear his own pulse pounding in his ears again, and for a moment wondered if he was having a stroke. He felt as though he were standing on the edge of an abyss. Dear God. Those eyes, that square-jawed, chiseled face. He knew this man. Deep in his soul he knew this man.

"I'll take it all."

He closed the wallet reluctantly and placed it back on the counter, watching closely as he dug out his credit card, to make sure that the shop owner carefully replaced each item in the box, including the Colt. He never even blinked at the price, just handed his Visa card over and waited impatiently for the transaction to process so he could take his box home.

He felt energized, as though an electric circuit had just been tripped. For the first time in months, he had something to look forward to. Carrying his treasures, he left the shop with a quick, light step, eager to get home. He was surprised at himself. He felt like a child on Christmas morning that had just received a pony.

Inside the parking garage, he unlocked his truck and placed the box carefully on the front floorboard beside him. As he wheeled the truck out of the space, he saw Judge Travis and Mary step off the elevator into the garage. Travis lifted a hand, and he stopped the big truck beside him. Reluctantly, he rolled his window down. He knew what was coming.

"Chris. How about joining us for dinner?"

"Sorry, Orrin. I have a date tonight."

It wasn't quite a lie. He did have plans.

He deliberately ignored the flash of hurt in Mary's eyes. He had made it clear a long time ago that he wasn't interested in replacing his family with her and her son. The woman had no idea how close he had come at times, to lashing out at her when she persisted in blindly pursuing him. The problem was, she couldn't seem to take no for an answer.

"Well, then, another time." Travis nodded amiably and walked on towards his Mercedes. Mary lingered for a moment. She pushed a strand of pale hair back with a gloved hand and stepped close, a determined smile on her pretty face.

"The Black and White Ball is coming up, Chris, and I was wondering if you--"

He cut her off abruptly, tired of dancing around and being polite, when all he wanted was to leave.

"Sorry, Mary. I have other plans. You might want to ask Ezra, he enjoys that type of thing."

He ignored her reddened face, gave her a barely polite nod, rolled up his window and pulled away. As he left her standing in the parking garage, it was all he could do not to floor the Ram and roar out of the building. The very last thing he needed or wanted in his life was another spoiled, stubborn woman.

Once back at the ranch, he carried the box into the den and placed it carefully on his desk. Then he hurried to change into his barn clothes, so that he could feed and get the horses settled for the night. He found himself whistling under his breath and grinning in anticipation as he dumped hay into Pony's feed net. It felt good to have something that wasn't work related to look forward to.

77777777

After a quick meal of sandwiches and microwaved stew, he settled happily in the chair at his big, antique roll top desk to peruse his newly acquired treasures. He removed the heavy lock and set it and the key aside. Carefully, he lifted out the silver studded gun belt, hands gentle as they caressed the oiled black leather.

He wasn't surprised to find the gun belt fit his lean waist as perfectly as the pistol did his hand. Again, he removed the old gun from the holster and examined it, marveling at the perfect balance and the way it fit his hand as though made for the purpose. He slid the Colt into the holster, than drew it out quickly. Even now, the old gun slipped easily from the leather and slapped into his palm. He shook his head in wonder over the initials. What an amazing coincidence. Reluctantly he removed and laid the antique firearm and rig aside.

He pulled out the tiny carved horses and examined them curiously. Both had been stained black, one with a carefully painted blaze down its face, the other with a tiny star in the center of its forehead. Toys? They felt warm and familiar to his hands. He stood them carefully side by side in an empty niche in his roll top desk.

Next came the battered harmonica. There was an old reddish stain, like iron oxide on it and he stared at it for several long minutes, before slowly lifting it to his mouth and blowing lightly across it. For some reason, the soft wavering notes made his skin crawl. He set it aside with a shiver.

Curiously, he opened the notebook. It appeared to be a child's copybook, the letters of the alphabet laboriously printed out over and over, more than a few backwards or inverted. He flipped a few pages. The long ago student had progressed to a list of simple words. The name at the top was his. Chris. Cat. Wagon. Horse. Gun. Peso. Home. His hands were shaking as he gently closed it and placed it on the desk. Slowly, he pulled the bundle of yellowing papers over, and tugged the tie off.

Several yellowed copies of an old New Mexico newspaper, The Clarion, a tattered dime novel, a couple of old letters addressed simply to Sheriff-- Four Corners, New Mexico, and last of all a faded, stained Wanted poster. The youthful face on the poster matched the one in the old daguerreotype. Vin Tanner. Wanted in Texas for Murder. 500 Dollars Reward. Unable to read farther he quickly returned the papers to the box.

He couldn't explain the emotions he felt as, once again, he opened the worn wallet and stared at the daguerreotype, at the faces. He could easily explain away the initials on the revolver as a mere coincidence, but how to explain the man with his face? He shivered, cold chills running up his spine despite the cheery fire in the big stone fireplace. Suddenly, he very much wanted a drink. Standing, still clutching the wallet, he strode over to the bar and quickly poured himself a generous dollop of whisky.

He plopped down on the worn leather couch by the fireplace, still staring at the old portrait. Definitely from the late 1800's, he thought. Who were these men? What had their lives been like? What was their story? Was the dark clad gunman who wore his face some forgotten ancestor?

Gently, he ran a finger over the face of the younger man seated beside his double. Despite the stiff, formal poses, he could see the coiled tension in the gunslinger, as well as the wry humor in the seated man's face. He looked like he wanted to break into a grin; a tiny quirk at the corner of the generous mouth. He found himself smiling in response.

As he examined the tooled wallet more carefully, he felt a slight bulge behind the daguerreotype. There appeared to be something tucked behind the picture. Carefully, he peeled back a flap of leather to discover a folded piece of faded newsprint wrapped around a lock of curly brown hair. The yellowed, well-creased piece of paper was a newspaper clipping of a poem; "A Hero's Heart" by Vin Tanner.

Chris sat for a long time, whisky forgotten, staring at the old portrait, rereading the clipping and gently running the lock of hair through his fingers. There was a story here, pieces to a puzzle, and he very much wanted to know the whole of it. His gunslinger double had carried this wallet, he was sure of it, and kept a picture, a poem, and a lock of his partner's hair as a keepsake.

He pondered that for a long time. Partners? He knew that nineteenth sentiment differed from that of the 21st century greatly. However, looking into the gunslinger's cool eyes he couldn't picture him as a person given to sentiment. He looked more closely at the picture, looking for clues in the men's body language.

The look the black clad man gave the camera was defiant, almost a challenge in itself, and the hand clasping the seated man's shoulder was firm and possessive. The young man seated under his hand looked content despite his formal pose, blue eyes calm. Larabee frowned. Blue? What made him think the man's eyes were blue? The old daguerreotype was black and white.

He lay back on the overstuffed, comfortable leather couch, still holding the lock of hair, and contemplated the dangerous lives of those men, a gunslinger and a wanted man who had apparently loved poetry. The fire died down in the grate and flickered, and the room slowly darkened as the night deepened. Chris fell asleep, the keepsake still in hand, clasped over his heart, the glass of whisky on the table beside him.

The bullet through the window shattered the neck of his whisky bottle. He poured a drink anyway. Ground glass or lead, slow or quick. He didn't care how Death came. He had been dead inside for years. He tossed the shot back, stood and walked outside, ignoring the bullets whizzing past his head as the trail hands shot up the town.

He stepped out on the boardwalk and paused to light a cheroot, watching with disinterest as a protesting black man was dragged down the street to be hung and a foolish woman nearly got her teeth kicked in when she stepped in the way brandishing an old scatter gun. A flash of blinding white cloth caught his attention across the street, and for the first time, sky blue eyes met his. The pristine cloth was exchanged for a rifle. Words were superfluous. Like called to like. He tilted his head in inquiry and was answered with a nod.

In unison, they stepped off the boardwalk and, shoulder to shoulder, headed up the dusty street to meet whatever destiny Fate dealt out. Afterwards, they stood together in a haze of gunpowder in the churchyard.

"Chris Larabee."

"Vin Tanner."

And so it began.

The crash of a falling log in the fireplace jolted him awake with a reflexive jerk. He sat up, dazed for a moment, his familiar surroundings alien for a few brief seconds. The dream had been so real. He felt as though he had walked through time as easily as a man walks through falling rain. He could still feel the hot noon sun on his face, the gritty dust on his clothing, the weight of his revolver in his hand---smell the acrid odor of gunpowder, taste the tang of bad whisky and sweet tobacco. Hear that rasp of a soft Texas drawl. See those clear blue eyes. Damn.

He was still holding the lock of hair.

Slightly unnerved he ran a hand through his own thick hair, pushing it absently back out of his eyes. He could almost feel the weight of the flat brimmed Stetson he had worn. He rubbed his face. So real. It had all been so damned real. He stared down at the lock of hair in his hand for another long moment before carefully tucking it back in its hiding place in the leather wallet.

He glanced at the brass clock over the mantel and decided it was time for bed. He didn't find it strange that he carried the old pocketbook with him as he went, leaving it on the bedside table with his watch, badge case and modern wallet. He glanced at it now and then as he undressed, reluctant for it to be out of his sight. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he stepped into the bathroom to take a shower.

When he climbed into the big, lonely bed he punched the pillows and tugged the quilt up then reached out and flipped the pocketbook open for one last look before he turned out the light. He looked steadily into the seated man's face. Vin. Your name is Vin and your eyes are blue. He propped the wallet open like a picture frame, turned the lamp off, and fell asleep with a small smile on his face.

77777777

Tuesday morning, he strolled into the office a few minutes late, whistling softly under his breath, carrying his briefcase with one hand and balancing a cup of coffee and a box of doughnuts in the other. He nodded amiably at his team, and left the doughnuts on the table in the break room to be shared out before stepping into his office and closing the door. Behind him, his men exchanged astonished looks before shrugging and stampeding into the small room to snag a snack.

"Whatever is going on, Mr. Wilmington?" murmured Ezra, as he carefully balanced a glazed pastry in a napkin, curious green eyes on Larabee's door.

"I dunno, Ez," Buck replied, munching heartily on a chocolate sprinkled confection, crumbs flying. He absently wiped frosting from his prize moustache. "I kind of hope that we're seeing the spring thaw a mite early." Thoughtful blue eyes on Chris's door as well, he ambled back to his desk.

They returned to their workstations and went back to work, but paused every now and then to glance at each other and grin. However, when Buck tentatively knocked at lunch and asked if Chris cared to join them at the Saloon for the daily special, Larabee politely, but firmly rebuffed him, barely raising his eyes from the screen of his computer. Reluctantly, Buck left with the others, disappointed, but still hopeful.

Inside his office, Chris paused at the computer and stretched. Looking at the clock, he opened a desk drawer and withdrew the sandwich he had brought from home, then after refilling his coffee cup in the break room, settled back at his desk for a quick lunch. Absently, he eyed the information on his computer screen. He was researching the history of the small frontier town of Four Corners, New Mexico.

Munching absently, he groped for a pen and scribbled down the title of a mentioned reference text. He glanced at the daguerreotype propped open beside his laptop. For the past few nights, he'd had vivid, colorful dreams of a life lived over a hundred years ago in the past. Fantasy? Reincarnation? Mental Illness? He didn't care which. It was an intriguing puzzle and it filled the empty hours.

I'm gonna find you partner.

Guiltily, he glanced at the clock an hour later as he heard the others noisily trooping off the elevator. He watched through the slotted blinds of his window as his team returned, Buck in the process of trying to steal JD's hat, as usual, as he bragged about his latest conquest. He smiled at the familiar antics, sighed, then reluctantly closed the window on the New Mexico website.

Time to get back to work. He pulled out the latest stack of folders holding the resumes for men who had been recommended for the position of team sharpshooter. He flipped open the first and scanned the first page for a few minutes, then snorted in disdain. Some idiot relative of an ATF hotshot, riding on his daddy's coattails. Not on my team, asshole. He tossed the folder into his wastebasket with an expert flick of the wrist.

The next followed. He read between the lines and remembered the man---severe problems with alcohol and several ex-wives. No way did he want that screw-up at his back. He tossed it. After another half dozen discarded files, the last a man who had actually accidentally shot an FBI agent in the midst of a bust, he raised weary eyes to those of the men in the old portrait. He smiled wryly at the steady gazes, eyes lingering on those of the seated man.

"I'll bet you never had that problem, telling the good guys from the bad."

He never realized he had spoken aloud, until Buck cleared his throat in the doorway. He had not heard the door open.

"You say something, Old Dog?"

"No Buck, just talking to myself. Can I help you with something?"

Wilmington watched, eyes narrowing as Chris scooped something off his desk and smoothly slid it into his jacket pocket, calm hazel eyes holding his.

Chris was hiding something from him, and it stung a bit. Chris Larabee could look a man dead in the eye and lie through his teeth and it took years of practice to know when he was doing it. The last time he had done that with Buck, he had declined an invitation and disappeared on a three day drunk, emerging at work snappish, pale and hung over. Warily, he approached the desk with a stack of folders. Chris looked fine, face calm, eyes clear and bright.

"Travis sent down another batch of applicants for sharpshooter. Says you need to make a decision soon."

Larabee stretched and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He scowled up at Buck.  
"Tell him to stop sending me applications from incompetents then!" he snapped, eyes flashing.

Buck grinned. "I'll let you tell him that, boss." He smoothed his moustache and cautiously took a seat in the chair across from the desk. It had been a long time since he had dared pull up a chair just to jaw for a few minutes. He plunked the folders down on the edge of the desk.

"You have a good weekend, pard?"

Larabee sighed, stretched again and tried to rub the crick out of his neck. Buck was fishing again. He was like a big old hound dog, tenacious and earnest in his affections and loyalty. He narrowed his own eyes warningly at his oldest friend.

"Yeah, Buck. It was nice and quiet. I got a lot done."

Wilmington gave a mournful sigh and tsked at his boss. "All work and no play--"

"Buck." It was a low growl.

Buck held up his hands, palms out. "OK, OK I will cease and desist, as Ezra would say."

Larabee gave him a small, reluctant smile. They talked about a couple of frustrating ongoing cases for a while, then Chris dismissed him and turned back to his new stack of folders. Once the office was empty, he removed the old pocketbook from his pocket and once again propped it open on his desk. It comforted him to work under those steady eyes from the past.

Engrossed in the open folder before him, he never noticed the inquisitive gaze that watched him through the window separating his office from the bullpen.

Outside of Larabee's office, a big hand dropped heavily on Buck's shoulder and he yelped and jumped, turning to the tall profiler.

"Dammit, Siah, don't sneak up on a man like that!" He glared into twinkling, pale blue eyes.

"Buck, are you spying on Chris again?"

Buck sniffed. "What do you mean again?" He met the older man's amused, steady gaze and sighed, shoulders slumping. "Yeah." He scuffed the carpet with the toe of one boot, like a kid, big hands tucked sulkily in his pockets.

"He's hiding something from us, Josiah."

Sanchez gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze. "Chris is a very private person, Buck, you know that," he admonished gently.

Buck turned and squinted back through the narrow blinds. He was bound and determined to get a glimpse of the mysterious object on Chris' desk. Whatever it was, it was important to Larabee, and in Buck's mind, whatever was important to his best friend was important to him as well. He scowled, watching narrowly as Chris raised his head from a file and smiled absently at the object. He craned his neck. Was it a picture of Sarah and Adam?

Josiah's large hand on his nape propelled him firmly away from his snooping, thwarting his curiosity for the time being and guided him back towards his desk. He scowled as JD smirked knowingly at him from behind his monster' computer, and gave the kid a half-hearted whack on the back of the head.

JD yelped and dodged, grinning at the intense, brooding look on his tall friend's face. Buck was worse than a cat when it came to being curious. He just could not abide a secret. He would sniff and poke around until he found out the answer, even if it got his ass kicked in the process. Dunne snickered softly at the mental image of Chris kicking Buck's tall behind, and turned back to the spreadsheet on his monitor.

Nathan and Ezra exchanged knowing looks, clucked and shook their heads. Josiah tilted back his chair and glared heavenwards. The good Lord knew they would need help riding herd on Buck Wilmington. The last time he had gotten that sneaky look on his face it had resulted in a raucous brawl in a cop bar that ended up with half the team incarcerated in the Denver jail until an irate Larabee had deigned to bail them out. It had been a very long weekend.

Blissfully oblivious to Buck's plotting, Chris Larabee continued working peacefully in his office.

77777777

The dreams continued nearly every night now. Some mere fragments, some as vivid and nearly as lengthy a technicolor saga as any film. Sometimes he awoke angry or frightened, heart pounding with adrenaline. Once, he awoke laughing out loud. Once with aching muscles as though he had been riding on horseback for days. Often he awoke just smiling and content. He pondered the source of his reawakening emotions. Vin Tanner, a drawling, blue-eyed Texas-- ghost.

He gave up trying to record the dreams. Most faded quickly, leaving only brief sensory impressions. Masculine laughter, the clink of glass against oak, the plinking notes of an out of tune piano badly played. The pungent, mingled odor of tobacco, beer and whisky. The scent of sage, sweat, horses, gun oil and leather. The brilliant colors of a desert sunset. The glint of sun on water, the flicker of a campfire, the warm glow of lamplight. A flash of laughing blue eyes. A shy, lop-sided grin. The slow rasp of a Texas drawl.

"Hey, Cowboy."

"So, I figure if a friend collects I get the last laugh."

"Aw. Hell."

"Boys, this job gets better every day."

"Vin coming in!"

Then subtly, slowly, the dreams changed, the atmosphere became more charged. Intense. Erotic. Sometimes he awoke aroused and diamond hard with a sweet yearning to touch that masturbation couldn't even begin to take the edge off of, much less satisfy.

"I'm right here."

To his mortification, he found his dream companion the focus of his desire. Was he finally going off the deep end? It worried him, rendered him absent minded one moment, and brooding and malcontented the next.

He had been heterosexual all his life, never even pondered walking the wild side of the fence. It shook him a bit. He found himself covertly looking more closely at other men, seeking an attraction, but to his intense relief, finding none. Unnerved, he even went out on a few tentative dates with an attractive agent, Maria Flores. She was beautiful, intelligent and clearly interested in him. It didn't work. The sex was--nice. That was all. They had parted sadly, she more bewildered than angry, he more relieved than anything.

The simple fact was that the dream Vin Tanner had become real to him. He dreamt about him at night. He lived and shared another life with the man vividly in those dreams. He thought about him during the day. His dream partner had been dead for over a hundred years, and no one in this time, male or female, could hold a candle to him.

Was the guilt over Sarah's death finally getting to him? Was this how his mind coped? Was Vin a figment of his imagination, like a child's perfect, invisible companion? Maybe he was going stark raving mad after all and should start looking into making a reservation at a nice, peaceful nuthouse. The thought sobered him, but he could not bear the idea of giving up on his search for answers--could not bear packing away the tin daguerreotype--could not bear giving up--Vin.

He was walking in two worlds now, and well aware that if he spoke to anyone about his dream life, he might as well get ready for a move to a comfy white room with nice, padded walls and visits from smiling doctors with sharp needles and little cups of pills. His career would be over, that was damned sure. What sane agent would serve with a man whose best friend was a ghost?

Chris continued his research in his spare time, doing computer searches, hitting the inter-library loan desk at the library, ordering books from Amazon, even phoning and chatting with the president of the historical society of Old Four Corners. He had been pleased to find several lengthy references to a gunfighter named Chris Larabee, secretly proud of the man's deeds and misdeeds. He even found another blurred image of his other' self in a old text on gunfighters, that Chris glaring at the photographer as he pushed his way through the batwing doors of some unknown saloon, dressed in familiar, dusty black. At least it was proof that the man had existed. So far, he had found no record of his death.

However, of Vin he found few traces, all buried in the archives of The Clarion. A fire had wiped out the newspaper office during the Depression, leaving only a few boxes of papers predating it to survive. It was frustrating to have his search seemingly come to a dead end. He wanted to know what had happened to Vin. It was important to him. Why, he wasn't really certain. It was odd to worry about a bounty on a dead man's head.

The search had started out as merely something to fill the empty hours, a mystery to solve. It had rapidly become an obsession, an important part of his life. Had Tanner cleared his name? Had he been killed for the bounty? Had he been hung simply because he was a guilty man and nothing more than a figment in Chris' imagination?

"I'm right here."

No. In his heart, Chris knew that Vin Tanner had been real; he held the evidence in his hands every day. Besides, Vin had told him he was innocent, and dreams were sacred things weren't they? Although, he had never heard or read of anyone else who had serial dreams of a past life as a gunslinger. He had done enough lurking in various chat rooms and skulking in the psychology and supernatural sections of the library to find that out. It was discouraging, but he was a determined man on a quest and it wasn't his nature to give in easily.

In a way, he felt he was living a double life---and he was. He carried the old pocketbook as faithfully as that long ago namesake and doppelganger. He would be sitting in a meeting with dull ATF honchos droning away, tilt his head and almost hear a wry drawled comment about stuffed shirts whispered in his ear. He could catch a whiff of frying chicken and absently remember' that it was one of Vin's favorite foods. When he rode out on Pony, he would catch a phantom image in the corner of his eye of a horseman beside him, could almost feel the brush of his knee against his.

"I'm right here."

The scents of cedar and sage made him hard. Sometimes in the evening, he thought he heard the aimless, wavering notes of a harmonica floating in off the back porch. Hell, maybe he was crazy after all. Time would tell.

77777777

It was nearly April when Buck Wilmington decided to grab the bull by the horns, so to speak. The big man was about to perish from curiosity. He had been thwarted in every attempt to catch a glimpse of Chris' mysterious picture. Buck was ninety percent sure it was a photo of Sarah, but he wanted to see anyway. Larabee had become increasingly distracted lately. Not so that it was noticeable by anyone who did not know him, but clearly visible to Buck, and it worried him.

An exasperated Travis had finally appointed a temporary sharpshooter to Team Seven, transferring a man laterally from Team Three, whose members had been reduced lately by family emergencies and various transfers. Agent Hill was as dull as ditchwater with no sense of humor whatsoever, but adequate at his job. Fortunately, there had been no real test of his skills on the job so far. Chris kept searching for a sharpshooter.

Buck had made a habit of looking after Chris for a lot of years. Partially out of friendship and love, and partially out of guilt. No one alive knew of the night Sarah had appeared on his doorstep, crying after a fight with Chris and ended up in his bed. What had started out as an attempt at pure comfort had rapidly turned into lust. They had always shared an attraction. The next morning she had been gone. Chris has come to work pale and grim, with red-rimmed eyes. A week later, she was dead. Buck kept his mouth shut, there was no way to tell Chris now without hurting him.

So he compensated by running interference between the brass at work, and being the best friend he could be. He felt he owed that much to Chris, and if it had cost him a black eye occasionally when he had tried to pry Chris out of a bottle, so be it. That was a small price to pay for the betrayal of his friend's trust. He had been pleased when Chris started dating Maria, happy for him. The breakup had been a surprise, but Buck had kept silent. Chris had appeared totally unperturbed.

What did worry him was that Larabee now appeared to have lost all interest in the fair sex. He had even politely rebuffed Mary Travis in the middle of the bullpen when she had shown up at lunchtime with tickets to the latest blockbuster film and an offer for supper afterwards. She had left, head high, cheeks aflame and eyes bright, while Chris had absently continued on into his office, nose buried in an old library book, a bulging notebook tucked under his arm, not even noticing the sudden, embarrassed silence in the bullpen.

That binder was something that Buck itched to get his hands on, too. Chris carried it in with him every day and was constantly adding bits and pieces to it, especially during lunch. When Buck casually asked if it pertained to a new case, Chris had simply replied no, then deftly changed the subject. When he left his office during work hours, he locked it securely in his desk drawer. The drawer Buck was sure was booby-trapped.

Secrets. Buck hated secrets. So he decided to take action. He was storming the lion's den and literally grabbing it by the tail. Hopefully, he would survive to show up for work Monday morning with all his parts intact. Things could get mighty ugly, and Buck Wilmington hated ugly, too. So Friday night, he showed up at Larabee's ranch with a six-pack of beer and an extra-large deep-dish pizza. If all else failed, maybe he could distract the lion with dinner while he took a quick snoop around his den. Buck hadn't spent time in covert ops in the Navy for nothing.

77777777

A yawning, squinting, barefoot Chris answered Buck's exuberant pounding on the door blinking in surprise at the visit. It had been a long time since he had invited anyone over, even Buck.

"Buck?" He absently held the door open. "What brings you all the way out here?"

Larabee's ranch was a good hour's drive out of the city.

"Game night, pard! And JD and Casey had a romantic night planned since Miss Nettie is out of town." He thrust the pizza box at Chris with his most hangdog look. "I got kicked out of my own house."

Larabee snorted and waved him into the kitchen.

"So, you decided on a date with my big screen TV?"

"Yep." Buck answered happily, "I bring beer as an offering." He plunked it down on the oak kitchen table. Chris nodded again with a bemused smile, then began to dig plates and napkins out of the cupboard. Behind him, Buck sighed in relief. So far, so good. Chris actually appeared to be in a good mood and happy to see him. Maybe this would work after all.

They carried loaded plates and beer into the spacious wood paneled den. Chris waved him to the big recliner, normally his own favorite seat, and took the couch himself. As he made himself comfortable, he tossed the remote to Buck and sprawled back on the big, leather sofa, a slice of pizza in one hand and a book in the other.

Buck watched the Broncos with one eye and Larabee with the other. Chris ate and drank absently, attention more on the volume he held, then the television set. Every now and then he would raise his head and gaze absently at the screen, but his attention really wasn't on the game. Buck squinted at the title of the fat, hardbound book. "The History of the American West." He raised a brow. So, Chris had a new hobby.

He glanced casually around the comfortable den that doubled as Chris' home office. All traces of Sarah had been removed long ago. While Adam's room remained locked and untouched down the hall, all of the feminine touches Sarah had contributed were gone except for the sunny yellow paint in the kitchen. The delicate floral prints and wallpapers had been replaced with deep, masculine blues and greens, the lace-edged curtains removed.

The only reminders of her were in the pictures on the wall along the hall. Buck was startled to notice that the big framed portrait of Sarah that had hung above the mantel was gone, replaced by a large oil painting of two cowboys on horseback fording a shallow river, driving a colorful remuda of horses. Adam's colorful crayon drawings of trucks and horses remained, lovingly framed, by the fireplace. A bit unsettled, he stroked his moustache and looked more closely around the room.

Chris' huge, antique roll top desk was piled with books and paper. There was even a knee-high pile of library books stacked beside his chair. An old map of New Mexico and another of Texas were tacked on the cork bulletin board above it, as well as numerous post it notes and Xeroxes of newspaper clippings. He squinted. Was that an old Wanted poster mounted and framed above the desk? Yeah.

Also, in the tall gun cabinet in the corner, he caught a glimpse of an antique gun belt complete with a bone handled Colt. Why was the valuable old gun in the regular cabinet instead of displayed under glass in the cherry wood collector's case on the wall with the rest of Chris' antique guns?

He slanted a glance over at Larabee. Chris looked like a college student, dressed in ratty black sweats and a faded green T shirt, a hank of blond hair falling into his eyes as he stared down at the book he held, totally engrossed in the printed page. His face was calm, peaceful, contented with his book. The can of beer he was drinking, still dewy with condensation, sat next to his empty paper plate.

Buck felt himself slowly relax. Chris was happy with his new hobby and apparently avoiding the bottle. He knew that if he checked the bar he would probably find the few bottles Larabee had left over from the holidays untouched. Pleased, he nodded to himself and returned his attention to the game.

He had an idea now of what was in Larabee's binder. Brooding a bit, he wondered if maybe Chris had been so close mouthed about his hobby because he thought Buck and the others might ridicule the way he chose to fill his spare time. Did he think Buck would pity him? He thought about how self-contained Chris had always been, not a social being like he was. Oh, Bareback' Larabee had certainly had his moments, but those were usually while under the influence. He had never really taken the time to think about how shy Chris could be. He had a studious nature that few saw.

Stung, he wondered just how often Chris had felt he had to hide his true nature away from his more exuberant personality. He remembered how Larabee had forcefully pushed him away after the bombing, wanting neither his pity nor his sympathy. How carefully Chris had distanced himself from him, his oldest friend.

Had that been out of grief or for self-protection? He had tried to drag Chris into an active social life, when the man needed the healing peace and quiet of his home. Hell, Sarah had tried to do the same damned thing, only worse. Mold his personality into something he was not. Buck felt ashamed of himself for the first time in years. Too often, he forgot the quiet side of Chris, projecting his own exuberant personality over his friend. Did part of Chris' problems with alcohol stem from his attempts to cope with being forced to be something he was not?

He stared blindly at the painting above the fireplace.

"Thinking dark thoughts there, Big Dog."

He looked up to meet sharp, hazel eyes. Quickly, he blinked and cleared his throat, nodded at the painting.

"Naw, pard. Just thinking that's a mighty pretty picture."

Chris gave him a small smile and quirked a blond brow.

"I gave the portrait to Sarah's mother. I didn't want it anymore."

The smile had died and Chris' voice was dull with remembered pain. He stared into Buck's eyes without flinching.

"I loved her Buck, but I couldn't trust her anymore."

He held Buck's eyes for a moment more, then went back to his book, face calm and serene.

Buck's face flamed and his stomach clenched. Something crunched and he looked blindly down at his fist, realizing only then that he had crushed his beer can. Beer foamed and sloshed sloppily over his wrist and he swore softly and grabbed shakily for a napkin. Chris had known. Chris had known all along and had never said a word of condemnation or laid a fist on him.

He gasped out a breath and raised his head to meet a soft, understanding gaze. The bitch. She had used them both. And knowing Sarah Connelly Larabee's often vitriolic, razor tipped tongue, she had made certain Chris had known every detail of the night she spent in his bed. He dropped his head to his hands, eyes burning with shame as the tears welled, only to feel the forgiving, gentle palm of his friend's hand land softly on the nape of his neck. He reached out and wrapped one big hand around Chris' cotton clad thigh and wept.

Larabee stood above him, stroking his hair silently, eyes far away, looking across the room into the distant past.

77777777

Warm, pliant, soft lips under his, the rasp of stubble against his cheek. Silky, sweaty skin over hard muscle pushed against his. Hot breath panted against his throat. Strong, calloused hands dug into his shoulders and swept down his back, short nails raking trails of pure sensation. He thrust hard into the hot body beneath him, felt the strong legs wrap around his back, heels digging hard into his ass as he wrapped a hand in the long, coarse silk hair and took that beautiful, hungry mouth, tongue trying to match his cock for depth as he plunged deep into that hot, wet cavern of his man's mouth. The moist slap of body against body, the creak of the narrow cot beneath them. Climax rolled like a storm front over them and he panted and growled with pure, white-hot sensation as they both reached the peak within moments of each other. White teeth sank into his shoulder and he threw back his head and howled his pleasure and his lover's name--

"Vin!"

Larabee jolted wide awake, alone in the wide bed, back arching as he came all over himself, hands and heels digging into the sheet. He lay gasping and winded, wide eyes on the ceiling, his hands clenching cloth where before there had been warm skin. Panting softly, he stared, dazed, up at a drifting cobweb, one hand slowly rubbing his own essence into his belly. The room was ripe with the scent of semen and sweat. For a second, he thought he caught a whiff of cedar and pure male musk. Vin. Oh, Vin. Goddamn.

He ran a tongue over dry lips, turned his head and stared into the steady gaze of the old portrait and croaked aloud.

"Goddamn. Goddamn it all to hell."

One fist thumped weakly against the mattress and he shut his eyes hard against impending tears. How was he supposed to live the rest of his life without the comfort of that exquisite touch? The abiding warmth of that love? He closed his eyes and wiped viciously at his face. God. He was going mad as a hatter after all.

77777777

He was silent and morose the next day at work. Buck took one look at his bleak face and efficiently ran interference with the rest of the staff, leaving him to seek solitary refuge in his office. He sat and stared blankly at his computer. Something had to give and give very soon. He could no longer live in two worlds. They were overlapping now, bleeding together so closely that he sometimes found himself bewildered by his surroundings.

Yesterday at lunch, he had found himself standing on the corner outside the building, blinking up in awe at the sheer height of the steel and glass buildings as the noisy traffic blared past, while the echo of hoof beats, the creak of wagon wheels and the whinnying of horses rang in his mind. It had disorientated and frightened him.

He closed his eyes and huffed out a long breath, ran his fingers through his hair. There was no one he could talk to about this. He would be clapped in a mental institution so fast it would make his head spin. He stared grimly through the glass wall of his office at the distant snow capped mountains. There was a good reason they didn't allow crazy people to carry guns. He fingered the butt of the automatic in his shoulder holster thoughtfully.

Slowly, he pulled out the old pocketbook and once again removed the lock of curly hair. He propped it on his desk and stared bleakly into that square-jawed face. You got to help me out here, pard. There's no one else who can. He pressed the fist holding the hair to his mouth and closed his burning eyes. He wished he had enough faith left to pray.

Then, soft as a mountain breeze, cool as the trickle of a bubbling stream across his tired brain it came, whispering into his ear in that familiar drawl.

There's a little backwater town up in the Texas panhandle. Tascosa. Flatter'n a felt-covered poker table. You know it?

By noon he had booked a plane ticket to Texas, took a leave of absence and walked out past Buck's worried questions and left a somber Josiah in charge.

He drove home quickly, changed clothes, packed a small bag and left with the pocketbook and the old harmonica tucked into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. He took the evening flight out of Denver. It would take him a while to drive from the nearest airport to what remained of old Tascosa. He grinned recklessly into the overhead mirror. He was a man on a mission all right---a crazy man traveling across country to rendezvous with a ghost in a town that no longer existed. Oprah would be proud.

77777777

Tascosa had once been known as the Cowboy Capital of the Plains. It had died a slow, strangled death when the railroad bypassed it and the range was fenced. Located on the Atacosa Creek in Oldham county, little remained of the once thriving cow town where Billy the Kid, Pat Garrett and Charlie Siringo once walked. All that was left was the old schoolhouse, the Tascosa Saloon, the old stone courthouse that now housed the Julian Bivins Museum and-- Boothill Cemetery.

Chris left his rental car at the museum. He wandered through the small museum feeling a bit lightheaded as he read placards and peered into glass cases containing prehistoric Indian relics and pioneer artifacts. He stopped in front of a case on the wall and stared at the cut down Winchester rifle and the Bowie knife in the fringed sheath within, his blood pounding a steady beat in his ears.

"Those belonged to a young man named Vin Tanner. He's buried up in Boothill. Got hung for killing a man."

Chris turned slowly to face the elderly, wizened, brown nut of a man dressed in a three-piece suit, a crisp white shirt and a string tie with an enormous white Stetson hat, as he shuffled over to stand beside him, leaning heavily on a can. The garrulous old fart of a historian continued his narrative despite Larabee's stony silence.

"Damned shame, too. The boy was innocent. Came back to clear his name. His friend arrived a day too late to save him. Rode a fine horse to death trying to get here with proof." The old man shook his head, the loose, wrinkled skin on his neck quivering above his starched white collar like an old turkey's wattles.

"Larabee shot up the whole goddamned town. Then after his friend was buried took his horse and just rode away. No one ever heard of him again. He was a pret' famous gunslinger too. "

The old man shook his head again, jowls quivering.

"A damned shame," he repeated as he shuffled off, cane tapping on the plank floor.

Chris found the grave under an ancient oak far back in a corner of the cemetery. It took him a while; some of the old graves were not well-marked, and some little more than anonymous piles of stone. He sank down beside it on suddenly nerveless legs, back against the trunk of the massive old oak. Probably the same damned tree they had hung him in. He reached out a shaky hand to touch the narrow headstone and trace the shallow, chiseled letters.

VIN TANNER  
AN INNOCENT MAN  
BELOVED

The date was almost completely worn away, scoured by time and the wind. Tears flowed as Chris' dam against long repressed emotion burst. He leaned against the old, faded stone and wept like a child. He wept for his lost family, for Vin, for the forbidden love they had shared, and for the lost gunslinger he had been. He wept until he was empty of pain and grief. His tears washed him clean.

He knew why no one had ever heard of his namesake after Vin's death. That quiet man had simply ridden away into the hills, turned Vin's horse loose to run free and put a gun to his own head, leaving his body to the elements and to God's dogs, the coyotes. Before he went, he had either left his and Vin's effects behind for someone, or an enterprising soul had relieved his corpse of them. Somewhere in those dry Texas hills lay the gunslinger's only legacy, a few scraps of bone, bits of metal, a rusted spur.

"God. Vin, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, pard. I tried to get here. I tried. Believe me, Cowboy, I tried."

But this time there was no answer except for a tiny wisp of wind that rustled softly through the leaves of the tree and gently ruffled Chris' hair before fading away. He dug a small hole at the head of the grave in the hard, crumbling, sandy soil, and left the old harmonica with its rightful owner. Then he went away. There was nothing left for him here.

77777777

He was back on the job the next week. Dry eyed, sober and emotionless as he mechanically went to work. There was nothing left in him, nothing left for him. The flashflood of grief at the grave had left him empty. He had tried to get drunk and only succeeded in giving himself a headache, because the whisky had no taste. Even the dreams were gone, leaving him hollow and bereft, as though they had never existed. Maybe they never had and it was all in his head.

He blinked down at his desk calendar. Fuck. The new round of interviews for a sharpshooter started today. He stood and searched irritably through a lopsided stack of papers looking for the interview list. Goddammit. Somebody, probably Buck, had been pawing through his IN box again. He made a mental note to kick Buck's ass.

Travis had tired of his procrastinating and had his personal assistant schedule the interviews. Hill was gone, back to Team Three, to the boys' relief. The man had been no damned fun at all. He had threatened to bring them all up on charges for their unending practical jokes against him. Even as Chris fumed and dug through the stack, the object of his ire stuck his head around the door, ignoring his strict instructions to knock first, as usual, and bellowed cheerfully,

"Yo, Old Dog! First interview is here."

Larabee glared up at the clock. The man was fifteen minutes early. Maybe he should just make him wait. Nah, no point in making the guy suffer because he was the one unprepared. He gave a grunt of triumph, and pulled the misplaced list out of his OUT box. Damn Buck for snooping through his desk anyway. He would send him down to the dead file room with a tall pile of obscure forms to file as revenge.

He glared at Wilmington. "Send him in." He glanced down at the list, blinked, then blinked again, and rubbed at his eyes. Okay, he thought grimly, I am going crazy because I thought that said--

"Vin Tanner."

He started, and stared at the man standing just inside his office, just closing the door behind him, stepping forward and tentatively holding out his hand. Their eyes met and he knew the flush that flowed up that chiseled face matched the one on his own, as their gazes locked, sizzled and held just as the hard, familiar grip of their hands did.

Tanner stared wide-eyed at him, then his lashes fluttered, and color leeched from his face as he swayed on his feet.

Chris stepped forward and caught him, sliding a supportive arm around the trim waist. He wasn't feeling too steady himself. His heart was pounding and the blood was rushing through his ears. The lean body in his arms was achingly familiar. He kept his arms around the other man as they stumbled drunkenly over to the narrow, leather couch against the far wall. He curled a shaking hand in the thick, curly hair as he encouraged the younger man to put his head down, still clutching his hand with the other.

Tanner slowly turned his head and looked down at their clasped hands, then raised those impossibly blue eyes to Chris' face. He licked his lips, then spoke softly, almost in a whisper.

"I know you."

Chris felt an electric surge of energy shoot through his entire nervous system and a smile so wide it was painful cross his face.

"I know you, too." He answered softly.

He squeezed Vin's long fingers gently, reassuringly. He couldn't look away from that face, those wide eyes. Slowly he raised Vin's hand to his face and pressed a tender kiss to it. His own eyes were stinging with tears. Vin's fingers tightened on his, and he shuddered softly beneath Larabee's touch.

Vin swallowed hard and spoke again in that sweet, soft drawl.

"I dreamed--"

Chris leaned forward and Vin waited and their mouths brushed, and then clung, moist lips barely touching as they shared breath for the first time in forever. Chris brought his other hand up to cup Vin's jaw, brushing his thumb over that beautiful curve of strong bone, tracing the clear, clean line that defined his face. He felt Vin's pulse jump under his fingertips and the heat bloom beneath his skin. Vin returned the kiss, ardently, sharing his hunger. His clean scent of cedar and musk rose and Chris inhaled it, took it inside himself to where the new, tender, green shoots of hope and love and joy unfurled and began to grow.

It was time to begin again.

 

FINI

01/25/2005


End file.
